


With Nothing to Hold

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Character Study, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2560943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter where Porthos strays, he carries his past with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Nothing to Hold

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally part of the last fic I wrote, but since tonally they didn't fit as much (and it was written from Porthos' POV instead of Aramis'), I made it its own story. It was interesting to look at it from a more less hopeful viewpoint, although overall I think it presents less lively than how Porthos actually thinks and interacts with the world (there's more joy and cherishing of life in general in his character that isn't really presented in this fic - as because of all the crap Porthos has gone through, I'd argue that he's the one that appreciates life and happiness the most). So I tentatively stamp it as a time where he was still getting used to the musketeers, and then kind of flashes forward to where d'Artagnan shows up.

_Oh, you would-be slave, you mongrel, you sweet little dog – what are you doing? You look with those wanting eyes: always hungry, always guarded. Cold and hungry, you let yourself grow bold. You know what you are. You know where you belong. You know that despite your want, despite your desire, you know nothing of freedom._

_What are you doing?_

 

-

 

Porthos does not like to sleep. Not easily. There is a peace in the deep sleep brought on by bone-deep exhaustion, from exhilaration draining away after a fight, after the fever-rush of a wound pressed deep into his flesh that pulls him down into unconsciousness. But sleep is another thing entirely – and when asked, he says that it’s not so unremarkable that he should not sleep peacefully, given the life of a soldier.

What he does not say is that there is something to be said of the ghosts and demons and the stifling, powerful presence of other humans, sleeping in their own filth, desperate and starving, mouths hungry and open and searching for something to grasp. What he does not say is that after a lifetime in the Court of Miracles, sleep evades even the most innocent of children. 

He remembers the first time he killed a man – dank and dirty alleyway, scrambling for a flicker of food. He won a scrap of bread for his troubles, but it tasted of blood and brought him no pleasure at all. Charon found him afterwards, shaking, the stale bread clutched in his fingertips and his entire body twisted up in a way that left no room for guilt. Charon did not judge him – or, at least, did not judge him outwardly. 

He remembers the first time he let a man fuck him – dank and dirty back alleyway, more friction than pleasure, a rush of heat and sweat, of cock against cock, cock against pressed thighs, and the flush of come that left him breathless and too young to know where to put his hands, too young to prevent against the sting when the man, far older, thrice older, left him behind in the dirt. Flea found him afterwards, touched his face, and did not judge him for it – or, at least, did not judge him in a way that he could see. 

Porthos does not like to sleep. It is easy to overpower a beggar when he is twisted up in the semblance of sleep. It is easy to stab an exposed back, when a child is curled into himself. The night brings no mercy, only more chances to expend stamina and strength. Only more chances to unlatch a tether to the filthy, dank earth – as if there is any mercy in living in the Court. Only more ways to make a man not his own. 

At first, it concerns d’Artagnan, unused to the long hour watches in which Porthos sits still, back to the wall, back to the tree, back to whatever steady surface can keep him upright – in which he sits still and does not move, does not waver, does not betray even a hint of sleepiness. After years of understanding, Athos and Aramis do not think it strange, merely take it for what it is – Porthos does not like to sleep. 

It is not that Porthos dislikes sleeping. Porthos does not sleep often because when he sleeps, he dreams. 

It is not the faces that disquiet him in these dreams, though something clenches tight in his throat when he awakens to half-dreams filled with glimpses of a dark-skinned, dark-haired woman glancing at him over her shoulder, walking away from him and fading away into the ether of half-memories. Her face is never distinct, always changes – looks like a woman he sees in the market, looks like the twisted morphing of women he once knew. But never her. But he never mistakes her, either, for who she is meant to be. And it clenches tight down into his chest – to see her both smiling and sad as she looks at him before she is swallowed up into the darkness. 

Neither is it the memories that disquiet him – memories of his years in the Court, bright as life and stale as death – all those fine-boned men who skim by with daughters who belong to no one, slide them into side-streets and dark corners and he can hear the obscene sounds and, shamefully, feel the line of his cock grow hard as he envisions being with them – and never deciding if he would rather have the whore or the customer for himself. It is not those memories that disquiet him. Nor do the memories of Flea and Charon, older, experienced, hooking him down under their wings and looking after him – never able to determine, fully, if they loved him as he loved them, never able to tell if Flea let him touch her breasts because she wanted it or because she felt sorry for him. Never able to fully understand why his body turned hot to watch Charon bathe in the little pools of water they collect after the rainy seasons, never fully able to understand what he feels until Charon is dead and gone, and understand all those missed chances in which, maybe, for two moments the three of them could have been happy. 

Those deep-rooted terrors he keeps hidden, a shame and guilt and uncertainty that still scrapes down his back – those are not what disquiet him. 

No, what wakes him in a cold and sweating darkness of his morning, when his breath is thick in his throat, is the voice. It speaks quietly – but it speaks all the same, harsh and bitter truths that he’s always known, reminding him only when he’s fallen into his defenses, when he is open and exposed and vulnerable in his sleep, when he can no longer wear his uniform, his laughter, his smile as an armor—

It is no voice but his own, warped. 

 

-

 

_Where is your place, little mongrel? Look at you, crouching in front of your master’s home, wearing your master’s symbol as if there is pride in it, clutching to your empty heart the weapons of a soldier when you are nothing more than a nameless thing, better forgotten than respected._

_What respect have you garnered in your time beyond the Court? Who have you left behind in your selfishness? Who else will you abandon for yourself?_

_What do you know of freedom, of honor, of brotherhood?_

_You have so many pretty words and thoughts, stray mongrel. How easily you kneel down to a new master, would-be slave._

 

-

 

He does not sleep, cannot sleep, so instead he finds other amusements once night falls – taking Athos home once the drink has slunk down into the core of himself, bidding on card games he knows he’ll win every single time, finding his way into Aramis’ room where Aramis reads him passages from the Bible and then helps him read the words properly. 

Sometimes he takes to the street, fighting like there’s life in that, fighting like he’s nothing more than a mongrel on his heavy chain, straying far from his master’s home only to slink back to the garrison once he’s done, knuckles bloodied and Aramis giving him a light look that’s sympathetic and demands no explanation, but leaves Porthos cold down to his bones for the shame of it. But in those moments he feels freer, like he has no weight of his mother’s shackles. 

And sometimes Aramis joins him on the nights where he merely wishes to stretch out, never sleeping, perhaps reading by the dim light of his oiled lantern, and Aramis’ smile is light and teasing, warm and flushed in a way that Porthos doesn’t remember ever feeling. 

He has hopes, of course, and dreams, and one night he stumbles blind into Aramis’ bed with those same bloodied knuckles, but his hands cupped to take Aramis by his jaw, tilt his head, kiss him like it was a simple thing to do. And Aramis kisses him back, moans quietly, rolls his tongue to press against his lips and then arches up against him. 

Aramis, as it turns out, is a simple companion in the night, if only because he does not sleep, either. Haunted by a past he never speaks of, it’s almost easy to find a kind of solace there, but the shame jags itself deep into Porthos’ veins at the thought of comparing the two of them – Aramis, whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, is a step above him, he who was born in darkness and thrived in that darkness (jagged words and jagged shards of glass pushed into kidneys, fighting over pieces of bread like a dog, fucking in the back alleys like a whore). But Aramis is always kind, laughing, joking, his eyes light and then turning lust-dark when Porthos presses the barrel of his gun against the line of his jaw. Aramis, who moans and writhes beneath him, clings to him, gasps out his name as he comes – and stays with him until the morning, always. 

Before he can quite understand it, he understands he’s in love. 

 

-

 

_Little mongrel. You deserve no touch that is not a fist._

_Close up your heart, for what pleasure is there in a world that was never meant for you?_

_You deserve nothing of freedom and life._

 

-

 

There’s something to be said about the way that Aramis holds him down, curls their fingers together, fucks him like he is precious and simple, smoothing away all those rough edges and kissing him until he is warm and liquid beneath him. Rides him like he is easy and loved, smiles at him like he is warm as an ember, and in these moments, gasping into Aramis’ smiling mouth, he imagines that this is what it’s like to be cherished, to be worth something.

But there is joy in it, too, and there is joy in life. He can eat whenever he pleases, and while his purse is far from overflowing, it is full enough that he can feel its weight. He does not know what it is to have a father, but the Captain is one who leaves him feeling accomplished at a mission well-done, can see it in the quiet crinkle of the corners of his eyes as he nods once and returns to his office. He knows nothing of a brotherhood of honor, perhaps, but he knows that he can trust Athos and Aramis with his life, and, soon, d’Artagnan as well. There is comfort in that, a joy in the slide of the sun through the clouds, the clod of his boots through muddy streets and know that his choice in path is his own, and he need not hide in the shadows and pretend to not be a beggar. There is a joy to the touch of Aramis’ hand on his back, smiling at him like he is worthwhile. There is joy in the simple, steady presence of Athos at his side as they walk side by side. There is joy in the easiness of picking d’Artagnan up and tossing him into the haystack at the foot of the garrison’s stairs, laughing and telling him that he still has much left to learn in the art of street-fighting. 

When he fights at night, chasing away the demons and ghosts, he knows he can return to Aramis’ bed, if he is not with his other lovers, and he’ll curl their fingers together and sweep gently, cleaning him of the blood across his knuckles with no word other than remarking that he is too handsome to scar himself so needlessly. And then tell him that those scars are beautiful, all the same. 

And there is a joy in being called beautiful, for the first and only time in his life. 

 

-

 

 _What do you think you’re doing, mongrel?_

 

-

 

There is a fear in straying so close to Aramis’ side. The months roll by after their first time in a bed and he pretends that there is a distance, that such denial is enough, and he avoids the memories of Charon and Flea, flitting away with the years, avoids the would-be chances from Alice, whose smiles were always warm and brilliant and she saw him for what and who he is – and did not turn from him for that. 

His nights are sleepless, eyes open and undreaming, and yet thinking of what a mongrel has no right to touch – and slams his eyes shut and whispers to himself that he is no mongrel, that he is merely a man. 

And yet there is that fear that squeezes tight around his heart – this deep, rotting need that nestles dark inside of him, like the first time he killed a man, like the first time he fucked a man, like the first time he turned his back on Charon and Flea and felt nothing but a shuddering freedom—

He knows that the place that he has given himself is bound to someone’s heel – and he knows, bitter and steady, that Aramis holds his lead – and it is only because he put it there himself. 

But Aramis does not lead him, does not stray or tell him to stay. Instead, he turns to him in the dead of night, when neither of them are sleeping, and touches his face like he is a hopeful thing, like he means something to him – means something to only him. 

It is only a mongrel’s heart, a little thing that Aramis owns already, soft and with that deep rot inside that he can never shun – born in that darkness and never fully free of it, but despite its faults, it’s all he can offer and when Aramis takes it in his hands, like it is precious. 

And he tells him, and he whispers it, broken and uncertain, and Aramis smiles, touches his face, and says, quietly, that there is no rot that he can see – only bruises. Only scars. 

 

-

 

_What do you think you’re doing, mongrel?_

 

-

 

The voice is quiet that night, soft and hissing, but quieted by the sounds that push past Aramis’ mouth, that punch out of his throat like he can’t hold them in, and his hands scramble at his back, nails digging – marking him for his own, and Porthos arches, gasps out, sobs into their kisses like he doesn’t know what else to do. But for the first time in his memory, that voice is quiet, without conviction, with no truth to it. 

Would-be slave, mongrel, dog, rotting thing – he banishes it all, and the chains that dig hard into his heart break and shatter, and where there was once darkness and despair there is hope and happiness, a sheer, forceful happiness at the mere thought of living. There is another heart that belongs to him, not just his own.

And there is joy in it, just as there is joy in catching Aramis’ hands, kissing him, realizing that he is an imperfect, broken and bruised man just as he is – and still finding that perfection in him, all the same, and his heart is bound with it. 

Yes, he thinks, and closes his eyes, listens to the gasps from Aramis, the huff of his breath against his neck –where there is no chain, no collar, no lead. 

Just because he is Aramis’ does not mean he is not also his own. 

“Porthos,” Aramis murmurs, and Porthos knows his name is his own.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me [on tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/).


End file.
